Jock Blocked

by Pippa Grant

  You could say things got a little awkward once he realized how many people knew about the virgin thing at the cookout.

  He didn’t confirm it, but he didn’t deny the hints that were hanging heavy in the air that night either.

  And I still don’t like the way he looked at me when he told me to tell him he can’t hit a ball.

  Unsettling might be a good word for how that left me.

  Or possibly so paranoid I have an escape route if the cops show up at my apartment.

  Sarah and I keep walking our path amongst the protesters, who start shrieking with excitement as they realize the players are arriving.

  “Brooks!”

  “Elliott! Over here!”

  “Can I get your autograph, Brooks?”

  “Oh my god, marry me?”

  Sarah smiles at that last one. “Don’t worry, I doubt he takes her up on it,” she whispers.

  “I’m not worried.”

  Instead of heading for the players’ entrance, he walks to the fence and greets a few fans, signing baseballs and protest posters through the chain link.

  “Mackenzie,” he calls as we walk past.

  I almost keep walking, because he’s not calling me.

  But Sarah grabs me and stops me. “Don’t clam up now. The team needs you.”

  “He’s not—” I start, but when I turn, he is.

  He’s lowered his sunglasses, and he’s looking straight at me.

  My knees get a little wobbly, because this is unexpected.

  Also, his hazel eyes are really, really hot when he’s peering at me over his sunglasses like that.

  And I might have been having dreams about him having a four-headed penis the size of Mount Rushmore after listening to his sister-in-law talk a little too much about his brother’s penis.

  For the record, I did not get a glimpse of the goods the night I was hiding in his closet.

  And good thing, too, because I want him to not have sex, even if I’m getting warm in all the right places from him looking at me like that.

  I draw up across the fence from him. It’s a chain-link number, about eight feet high, so we’re definitely separated.

  One side of his mouth quirks up.

  It’s not friendly, even if he is wearing a Fiery Forever button on his jacket.

  “How’s Meaty?” he asks.

  My eyes bulge.

  Everyone around us turns to stare at me.

  “Fiery, you mean?” Crap, my stutter’s back.

  He holds my gaze without speaking for three long beats where he silently telegraphs that no, he means Meaty.

  You know my secret. I know yours, that smoky smirk says.

  He pushes his sunglasses back up onto his head. “Yeah. That’s what I meant.”

  A news crew is pushing in, and I am not going to hyperventilate at the fact that he could completely blow my Save Fiery campaign and probably get me arrested at the same time.

  This is worse than that moment at the cookout where I thought he’d figured me out, because now I know he has.

  Probably I need to come clean with Tripp and Lila.

  Hey, guys, funny story that ends well, haha…

  “Brooks! Brooks, how are you feeling before the game?” the reporter calls. “Are you coming out to protest for Fiery? How are you liking Copper Valley? How’s your puppy? Do you have any family in town for opening day?”

  He stares at me. Even though the sunglasses, I know he’s staring at me.

  Mostly because he mouths Meaty before he gives the crowd a wave and turns to walk away without answering the reporter’s questions.

  11

  Brooks

  A month ago, I was happily secure in the knowledge that there were younger guys with hotter bats on my team, but that I was still necessary, especially as a veteran presence, and that I needed to stay in top shape—mentally, physically, and virginally—to keep the baseball gods happy and to keep my paychecks rolling in.

  Today, I’m leaving Duggan Field, almost five hundred miles from the team I thought I’d retire from. I hit a single today, but I made a stupid error on the field in the second inning that cost us our home opener, and now the fact that the Fireballs are still losers is squarely on my shoulders.

  As is the fact that I’ve lost sight of why I ever loved this game in the first place.

  Why would I pick a career where I’m basically done before I’m thirty-five?

  What next?

  Teenage me, who thought I could spend every day swimming in piles of money, was an idiot. I don’t do boredom well, and I’m realizing that an endless stretch of boredom might be upon me sooner rather than later if I don’t figure out how to hit the ball again.

  There are coaching jobs. Front office jobs. Scouting jobs.

  But fuck, I’m tired of baseball.

  I’m looking forward to hanging out with my puppy in my porny apartment. Eloise wasn’t kidding about the carpet, and she sent a case of lava lamps, fake mustaches, and extra-bushy glue-on chest hair to accompany the toys for Coco Puff that I swear are sex toys and she insists are actual dog toys that just look like sex toys.

  It’s not like I need a happy apartment here. Given the way it’s started, I’m here one season, max. Maybe not that long. It’s good to live in a place where I won’t get attached.

  Plus, all the paisley wallpaper and olive green kitchen tile are making for stupidly rockin’ Instagram pictures with Coco Puff.

  He’s such a hilarious little dog. And so happy. He grins all the time, and he has some problem with his teeth that makes his tongue hang out crooked, hence the reason he was in the shelter.

  He was the weirdo of his litter, and nobody wanted a designer cavapoo dog who dribbled more water on the floor than he got in his mouth.

  But he’s so damn happy all the time.

  Hard to be down when you’re around that.

  His puppysitter tells me he only tinkled on the carpet once, but hit the puppy pad or the fire hydrant outside the building every other time. I get the run-down of his nap schedule, when he ate, and which toys he played with, and then ask the obligatory question, because she’s in her mid-twenties, cute, and single, and fuck it.

  Why not try to get laid? “You want to stick around for dinner?”

  She laughs. “Thanks, but I don’t date baseball players. Cooper would flip his lid, and the last thing we need is both of the team’s power hitters struggling. Or one of them in jail.”

  I blink at her. “Cooper.”

  “He didn’t tell you? I’m his cousin. And he’s not picky about much, but he’s definitely a pain in the ass when it comes to his female family members getting involved with his teammates. Or anyone, really.”

  No. No, the fucker didn’t tell me, and it’s only Coco Puff attacking my shoelace that keeps my temper from spiking into the red zone.

  She swings her bag over her shoulder. “I’m also a damn good puppysitter, so don’t think he got me this job just because he’s my cousin. Actually, this is the first time he’s ever gotten me a job. He must really like either you or me. Also, I think you got another package from your sister-in-law. I left it on the counter. She’s special, isn’t she?”

  She takes off after promising to be back tomorrow five hours before game time, and I grunt and grumble to myself while I climb onto the floor and roll around with my itty-bitty, brown, curly fluff-ball, snapping pictures of him to send to my mom and selfies of us for Instagram.

  I’ve been too busy playing with Coco Puff and avoiding unpacking to work on Operation: Get Laid, but my Insta comments suggest that once I’m back in the game, I won’t have any trouble.

  Provided I quit getting puppysitter recommendations from my teammates and take care of the other half of my cock-blocker problem.

  Pretty sure I handled it before the game though.

  I’m not proud of how pale I made Mackenzie when I said Meaty to her, but if she thinks she’s going to screw with my life, then she needs to know I can screw with
hers too.

  And we’re not going to talk about how my pulse did the Macarena when our eyes met. Just because she’s hot doesn’t mean she’s not the wrong kind of crazy.

  “You think Daddy should date?” I ask Coco Puff, who yips excitedly, chases his tail, and then collapses on the ground with his back legs splayed so cute, I have to take another picture of him.

  I could slide into a few DMs on Insta, but I’m not subjecting my dog to any random crazy that hasn’t been vetted, so instead, I pull up one of those dating apps I registered for earlier this month.

  The first one flashes a red warning. Account disabled.

  When I try to get a new password sent to my email, instead, I get a nastygram from the company telling me I’ve used their site inappropriately and I’m not allowed back in.

  “What the hell?”

  The second one doesn’t even pull up. I get the white screen of app death.

  The third won’t acknowledge my email address, user name, or send me a new password.

  By my fourth failure, I know exactly what’s going on, and I switch over to my text messages.

  Brooks: DAMMIT, Eloise, WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU DO TO MY DATING APPS?

  Rhett: Hey. You want to pick on my wife, you call her by her real name. Hot Crazy Pants.

  Brooks: *middle finger emoji*

  Knox: Was this supposed to be a private message?

  Jack: Definitely not. We all need to know the state of baby brother’s innocence.

  Parker: Pickleroni cheesemuffins.

  Eloise: *GIF of woman curtseying and a flashing YOU’RE WELCOME*

  Brooks: Dammit. Yes, it was supposed to be private. FIX. IT. NOW.

  Eloise: Dude, I am saving you from yourself. That pickleroni in your pants? He needs to sit and stay, because I can’t let you finish your career in the slump of all slumps. You need to go out ON A BLAZE OF FUCKING GLORY. Like the kind of blazing glory we’d see if we set Rhett’s ass on fire, because that’s also glorious.

  Parker: Chicka-chicka vroom vroom *trackpad emoji* *sperm emoji*

  Gavin: Dating apps? Why do you need dating apps? Doesn’t your agent set you up with women you fake-date so people don’t know you’re a virgin?

  Jack: *eggplant emoji* *“no” symbol emoji* *laughing clown emoji*

  Brooks: I hate you all.

  Knox: Hold up, Bazookarooka. Look, I don’t know how you feel, but I’ve read a LOT of romance novels, and I can imagine how frustrating it is to be baseball’s oldest virgin. That’s like, the uber-ultimate worst sacrifice the universe can ask of you. But are you sure contact with attractive women is the actual problem? What if it’s that you’ve been trying to bang the WRONG women?

  Brooks: Don’t start spewing meatball philosophy at me. I am NOT in the mood.

  Eloise: Not being in the mood is a good thing, baby brother-in-law.

  Jack: *meatball emoji* *WTF emoji*

  Parker: What the goobledeedoo is masturbator phyllo dough?

  Parker: ELOISE. F-I-X M-Y VAGINA-llama-dingdong.

  Rhett: I bow to the master. Crazy Hot Pants, I don’t know how you keep making Parker’s phone better, but you’re getting all the meat stick you want tonight.

  Brooks: *GIF of an asshole*

  Rhett: Oh. Right. Sorry for rubbing it in your face that I’m getting some and you’re not, Bazookarooka. But my wife’s right. We can’t let you end your career in the slump of all slumps. You need to get out on that field, kick ass, take names, and be part of the Fireballs’ record-breaking winning season. YOU ARE GOING ALL THE WAY. You just need to see a witch doctor to get rid of whatever curse you got from the chick you made out with in Florida.

  Eloise: Shouldn’t have let her touch your pee-pee.

  Brooks: Pee-pee? PEE-PEE? Are you the same woman who nicknamed Rhett’s dick TARZAN THE WONDER SCHLONG? And you’re calling mine a pee-pee?

  Eloise: I have some limits.

  Parker: *laughing emoji*

  Knox: *The Princess Bride GIF of Valerie screaming LIAR!*

  Gavin: Eloise, you created a computer virus that wiped the word “limit” from all online dictionaries.

  Rhett: Babe… They’re right. You really don’t have any limits. But Brooks, yeah, compared to me… you’ve got a pee-pee.

  Brooks: Again, I hate you all.

  Eloise: You know that Mackenzie chick that you think stole the meatball? I know where she’s at tonight. Want the address?

  Brooks: Why the fuck would I want her address? She’s the original cock-blocker.

  Eloise: That makes her good people for you to hang out with. She can help you.

  Knox: Brooks, dude, she is the MOST superstitious person I’ve ever met. If anyone knows how to break a superstition, it’s gonna be her.

  Parker: Slick slick clit in a banana-jama peanut butter haiku.

  Parker: *knife emoji* *computer emoji*

  Eloise: Have faith in your brilliant and sexy sister-in-law, Bazookarooka. If nothing else, going to see her will remind you that you hate her more than you hate us. Also, I sent Coco Puff a present. I hope you both like it.

  She follows up with an address, and I glare at it while Coco Puff rolls over on his back and gives me puppy dog eyes. It’s like he’s saying, How can you be unhappy when I’m adorable and want belly rubs?

  “I’m not going to see Mackenzie,” I tell Coco Puff.

  He yips, then growls, then swishes his entire lower body in the brown shag carpet while he wags his tail.

  “Don’t you start too. She’s a thief. And a cock-blocker. And she’s getting away with all of it.”

  His tongue hangs out happily and he barks in agreement.

  “Don’t tell me you approve.”

  He yips and rolls over, then leaps to his feet and attacks the blue rubber dildo-toy, which makes me think about that night at “the club” that we don’t talk about, and about how utterly useless it was given the game today.

  “You know what would serve them all right?”

  He cocks his head and lifts his ears at me as an idea takes shape, and holy hell.

  That would serve them all right.

  “Puppy wanna go for a ride?”

  Coco Puff goes banana-pants, yipping and turning in a circle and accidentally peeing all over the brown shag carpet.

  But I’m grinning while I get it cleaned up, put him in a Fireballs jersey and the surprisingly tasteful collar Eloise sent for him with his name embroidered on it, then tuck him into his doggy car seat for the ride across town.

  Two birds, one stone.

  I have a plan.

  12

  Mackenzie

  I’m running late for dinner with my dads, but I’m not too worried. They are, after all, the men who taught me to be fashionably late to everything, which means I’ll still be twenty minutes early.

  I stumble into Periwinkles with the birthday present for Dad, and Dame Delilah claps her hands at the hostess stand. “Oh, Mackenzie, that wrap job is exquisite.” She slips around the stand to take my elbow, gives me cheek-kisses, and runs her manicured fingertips over the gold wrapping paper on the present. “We saved you a seat by the stage. Come come. Queen Bijou and Lady Lucille are on in twenty minutes. And your friend is already here. Hello, hotness. I approve, baby. I approve.”

  My dads adopted me when I was two—my biological mom was Papa’s sister—and I basically grew up here at Periwinkles. We still do Christmas backstage with everyone who doesn’t have other family to spend the holidays with, and there have been many an off-hours party here for every reason from just because to someone had a hard break-up to Mackenzie got her braces off on the same day the Fireballs won by four runs.

  I got drunk the first time here. I had my hair done for prom here. And I learned everything I know about superstitions from Dad—aka Queen Bijou—by watching his pre-show routines and rituals in his dressing room here.

  We were an accidental family, but this is as much home to me as my apartment downtown, three blocks from the ballp
ark.

  And my home has now been invaded by a broad-shouldered, arm-porn-displaying god hellbent on destroying my favorite team.

  “Here you go, sweet cheeks. Evianna’s taking care of you tonight. You know what to do if you need anything.” She winks and lowers her voice. “And I do mean anything. But tell him he’s swinging too soon and needs to keep his eye on the ball.”

  Brooks Elliott is seated at my table, one ankle crossed over his knee, stroking his puppy with his long fingers and looking like a king surveying his kingdom. He’s in a dark polo, jeans, and he’s managed to encase himself in some kind of magic cloud of pheromones.

  I momentarily go mute, but almost as quickly remember that I can do this, and I set the present on the black tablecloth and seat myself in the cushioned red velvet chair beside my current obsession.

  He shouldn’t be here.

  Am I ashamed of my dads?

  No. Not a chance.

  But you’re damn right I’m protective of them. I don’t know what this man’s doing here, what he knows about my personal life, or what he wants.

  He obviously wants something or he wouldn’t be here. And if he thinks that dropping hints that he knows who my dads are can give him an upper hand, he’ll be so wrong, he’ll be on a train back to New York with his career in tatters before I’m done with him, and yes, I can accomplish that in two minutes or less if I have to.

  “What are you doing here?” I growl.

  Yes, me. Mackenzie Montana. Growling at a baseball god.

  Do not fuck with my family.